


If I Have Not Love

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Delta [5]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fingering, Kissing, M/M, Melancholy, Multi, Past Ot3, Smut, referenced character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22480849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Sometime after Erik's death, Christine remembers moments of intimacy with him.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Series: Delta [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1402897
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	If I Have Not Love

They were always careful loving him. Careful not to exhaust him, careful not to hurt him, careful not to make his lungs bleed. And it was he who would urge them not to be so careful, urge them to let him love them fully, deeply.

It was often more comfortable, less pressure on his lungs, for him to lie back against pillows (against his saddle, under the stars) and she would settle on his hips. Carefully, gently, he would kiss her, and she would stroke back his hair, ease open the buttons of his shirt, one by one, as he pushed inside of her, his breath hitching just a little, and his hand would slide inside her shirt, cup her breast and make her gasp, as she moved for the two of them, rocked herself against him to feel that thrill go through her, the pressure of him inside her, lift herself, just a little, to make his pupils blow wide in the low light, his breaths ragged gasps as he kissed her, as he tilted his head back, and she would stroke his chest, the hollow of his belly, always so warm from the fever burning beneath his skin, sensitive from her touch, and kiss his nipples, nip them to make his breath shudder and his hands would rest upon her hips, his own hips rise to meet her as his eyes slipped closed and she would rub herself against him as he bucked inside her, his gasps making her breaths tighter, harder, the heat coiling low between her legs until she gasped and felt that relief flood through her, leaving her boneless to slump upon him as he slipped from her, and they would kiss, gentle, careful, as their breathing settled back to normal, hers so much sooner than his, his heart racing in his chest, and he would sleep, then, and she would re-button his shirt and fix his trousers and fix the blankets around them both to keep him from getting cold (and she always made sure they were carrying blankets, no matter where they were traveling to, because sleeping beneath the stars can leave a chill in her bones, and how much worse must that have been for Erik and his illness?)

He loved to kiss her, loved to kiss her lips and her cheeks and her eyelids, loved to nip her neck and kiss her collarbone and brush her nipples, always so sensitive. Loved to kiss her breastbone and along her ribs and the edge of her belly button and the crease of her hip. Loved to dip his head between her legs and kiss her inner thigh and nuzzle into her, there, the most hidden part of her. Loved to bring her pleasure with lips and tongue alone, licking and suckling that part of her that made her cry out and her hand tighten on the back of his neck, pressing him closer, his hands tighten around her hips to bruise her as she bucked against him. And after his tongue dipped inside her, after he tasted her as deeply as he could, she kissed the taste of herself off his lips, salty and edged with the iron of his tongue, as he tried to catch his breath, gasping into her mouth. And he loved kissing her so much he kissed that hidden part of her and loved it even when he had to pause every words to draw breath when speaking.

It brought him endless joy, to be able to do that for her.

And his hands. He had the most beautiful hands, long-fingered and elegant and strong with a pianist's musculature even as the rest of him grew frail. And when he was past being pleasured himself, past having the energy to enter her, he would kiss her, slowly, carefully, and those hands would caress her, lightly trace her skin so that her breaths stuttered and those long fingers would rub that secret place his lips loved to kiss so much, rub her as she squeezed his hand between her legs and his finger would still upon the most sensitive spot as she rocked herself against it, each thrill of pleasure shooting though her and that finger would slip, carefully, slowly, and enter her as gently as could be, no pain, her legs spreading just a little, just enough to let him as she rocked herself against his palm and a second finger would join the first, the added pressure making her gasp as those fingers slipped in and out, the edge of his knuckle catching her, widening her, and a third finger would join the first two, just as slow, just as careful, and she would tighten her legs again to squeeze them inside her, his arm pulling her close as she gasped into his mouth and he nipped her lip as those fingers moved within her, spreading her, the pressure of them as she pressed herself down upon them and as her breaths came shorter and shorter he dipped his head to kiss her neck and his teeth scraped her skin and made her blood rush and all she wanted was him, him, more of him, inside her and around her and she gasped as she bucked against those fingers, the pleasure racing through her, before she sank helpless into his arms.

He kissed every part of her face after that.

(Before, before his illness grew so advanced, she would be the one to lie on her back as he kissed her and caressed her and entered her and she loved to love him like that, loved to see his face framed by the moon above, but she loved it even more the other way, when she lay him down instead, when she could do something to make him feel good, and when every moment of pleasure was made more so in the knowledge of how lucky they were to still have him.)

(Sometimes he even sat in a chair, and it was awkward to balance herself on his hips, but it was easier on his chest, and his hands held her steady.)

He was just as careful with Emir, just as tender and just as insistent, that he might not be well enough to find pleasure himself but he would bring Emir pleasure, and he could kiss his mouth just the same, and his hand would do the rest, caressing and stroking and eliciting those gasps she has come to know so well, has come to treasure as she draws them from Emir's lips herself.

(Erik never coughed, with either of the,, as they brought him to release.)

(When they tasted the iron and salt of blood in his mouth, how could they know it had not come from their own bitten lips?)

She did not spy on them. She was always very discreet, always gave them space whether they be in bed or beneath the stars, but Emir has told her, as she has told him, how Erik used to touch him, how he used to touch Erik. How when they were younger men, and even not so young, before Erik grew so ill, they would enter each other and Erik's face was never so beautiful than on the sand beneath the stars as Emir moved within him and she knew that face so well she could see it behind her eyes and hear the gasps through parted lips, see the arch of his neck. And Erik would touch him and bring him to pleasure, as he would touch Erik, and that, too, was something she knew, something she had done, when Erik was too tired to enter her, too tired but needing to feel something, and she would bring him to release as he lay back on his pillows, half-wrapped in blankets, and she would kiss the corner of his mouth, kiss his nose and the ridge of his cheek as he arched into her, as that warm part of him jumped in her hands, that skin always so soft and he would gasp into her mouth as he came to release, his eyes half-open and liquid dark as he spurted over her hand, over his belly. And he would sink deep into those pillows, and breathe her name, and when he had been stronger he would pull her close to him, and as he grew frail and tired his eyes would flicker closed and he would sleep deeply as she cleaned him up and made sure the blankets were enough and pressed herself close to him, because he never liked to wake without her close by, without Emir close by, and they each knew when to return, when the soft ministrations were over, and they would join Erik and the other back in bed to sleep, and Emir when he would return would kiss Erik's forehead gently, would squeeze her hand, and when she was the one who would return she would kiss Erik's hair and smile at Emir as she lay her hand on top of his, as Erik slept between them. Together, all three, at last, they would turn down the light, and cuddle close to him, and sleep the sleep of the sated.

(And when, in those last weeks of his life, when he was dying slowly, when they were past all such intimacy, it eased him just to feel them close to him, just to feel their skin against his, and as he slept they would lay their hands on his chest, on his belly, to feel him breathe, to feel him warm still, and turn their faces into his neck to hide their tears, and kiss him, chaste and gentle, a soft reminder of all they had had, of all they had been, so he would know he was not alone.)


End file.
